


Reset

by gutterpupper



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games), Call of Duty: Advanced Warfare - Fandom
Genre: Captain/Recruit, Disciplinary Spanking, Discipline, M/M, Military discipline, Non-Consensual Spanking, Non-Sexual Spanking, Over the Knee, Paddling, Punishment, Soldiers, Spanking, Training Session
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-22 14:47:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22317961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutterpupper/pseuds/gutterpupper
Summary: There’s only so many failures and blame-passing Gideon can take from Mitchell before he has to take things into his own hands.
Relationships: Gideon/Jack Mitchell (Call of Duty)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	Reset

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve wanted to do this for a while based on how Gideon has high expectations of Mitchell from when they first meet. I played through the game a few times to get a feel for them so hopefully, I got them right!
> 
>  **DISCLAIMER** : Aspects of this fiction belong to their original creators with some additional elements created by myself. This is only for entertainment and I do not take ownership of content that does not belong to me and all rights go to their respected owners.

There are only so many simulations you can run in one day before you start to lose focus. It’s the same scenario repeated but slightly different tactics to reach the same goal. You might go through the house and slam your way through the hostiles the first time, then try going around it in stealth the next two times, then go back to forcing your way through inside on the next. It’s the same surroundings, the same scenery, the same people. But it was all made to feel very, _very_ real. It was, after all, combat training. 

Since his arrival at Atlas, Jack Mitchell had been assigned to a team that worked with him to get him back to combat readiness. Having lost his left arm on a previous and his final mission with the United States Marine Corps, he needed all the training and support he could get. Atlas gave him a second chance, another try at a military career. And that chance came in the form of a high-tech prosthetic arm.

However, getting used to the arm was a different story.

“Focus Mitchell! Get your head in the game!”

Gideon’s commanding voice bounced between his ears, ringing in his mind as Mitchell checked his gun and equipment to be sure he was ready to re-run the simulation. Joker was next to him, his own eyes looking ahead as the paneling around the room flashed, loading the scenery of a lone house on private land. The same scenario, over and over. But he knew he could do it this time. He knew he was ready. The technicians had made a few adjustments to the calibration in the mechanics and hopefully this time he wouldn’t find the arm loosening up and dropping the gun uncontrollably. 

“Okay, you got this. Just concentrate,” Joker said supportively, though Mitchell could tell the soldier was just as fed up as he was. And then they went back into combat mode, just as before: infiltrating the house, eliminating any resistance, rescuing the president, and escorting him to safety. Mitchell thought he had it, finally mastered the situation as he ran towards the extraction point, sweat dripping from his brow as he gripped the gun in his hand, eyes peeled for trouble.

But before he could reach the finishing line, it all went wrong again.

“Shit-”

His fingers were jammed, gripping tightly onto the foregrip of his weapon. It would have been fine if it wasn’t for the pain spreading through the fingers. Even though the arm was mechanical, it hooked up to his nervous system, allowing him to feel sensations including pain. And with the digits locking up it made his grip on the gun uncomfortable. 

“Dammit.”

Mitchell cursed inwardly as he tried to pull the gun free with his right hand. Twisting it out of the tightening grip, his prosthetic fingers quickly clenched into a ball before bursting out into an open palm, the mechanical fingers writhing around unnaturally. There was no way he would be able to hold a weapon like this. What was causing it? A malfunction? Bad program code? A script bug? Whatever it was it had distracted him from the current situation and the soldier hadn’t noticed the dark figure come up behind him and strike him hard in the back, knocking him forward and off-balance. There was a sound of a muted gunshot and the crash of the president’s body hitting the dirt track followed.

“And you’d be next Mitchell, end of the line.” It was Gideon’s voice. He was the one who struck him, playing the role of the enemy. He took advantage of his confusion and now the simulation had ended. “Reset!” the older man yelled as the scenery around him disappeared to show the dark hall once again. The man playing the president pushed himself up off the ground, brushing himself down before giving Mitchell a frustrated glare and walking away. 

“What’s wrong with this thing,” Gideon questioned as he roughly grabbed Mitchell’s arm, watching his fingers twist and turn in ways normal fingers shouldn’t. 

“Fuck knows,” Mitchell responded as he pressed at his casing, trying to find the hidden reset button on the arm. “It just started playing up.”

“R&D gits don’t know what they are doing sometimes,” Gideon commented, sighing. He looked around at the staff shuffling about, clearing up anything left over from the simulation. “Joker, let’s give it a break,” he yelled to his comrade before looking back at Mitchell. “Get over to R&D and get that thing sorted out.”

Mitchell nodded. “Will do.”

“And when you’re done,” Gideon added, stopping Mitchell, “meet me back at my room.”

“What for?” Mitchell asked.

“To go over the shit show that just happened.”

Doing as suggested, Mitchell headed over to the instructed department, acknowledging anyone who hollered his name as he went past. It had only been a week since he started physical combat training. It all came flooding back to him as if it had never left him. The only difference was trying to get used to having a bionic arm, the piece of high tech machinery to replace the limb he lost. 

It took about three days just for him to pick up a single piece of fruit without dropping it or crushing it beneath his fingers. Most of that was just from calibrating the sensitivity from his body to the operations of the prosthetic arm. Even now, he was still impressed at the equipment that allowed him to continue his military career.

“Jack, here about the arm? We think we can see the problem in the base code. Audrey has written a patch we want to install and see if it improves.”

The technicians were well versed in his background, statistics and requirements having spent so much time monitoring him. Sometimes they needed to have a deeper look and find the fault but a majority of the time they knew the flaws before he could tell them. Irons had made his arm a top priority, wanting to get him in peak shape as soon as possible. That meant Gideon, Joker and the rest of the squad had spent a number of hours in training simulators, not only to help them get better use of the technology at their disposal but to give Mitchell the best chance of becoming combat-ready again.

The last thing he wanted was to let Gideon down. 

Gideon had almost become a mentor of sorts, taking Mitchell under his wing. They’d never outright acknowledged it like that but the man had high expectations, one of a Captain more than a colleague. Gideon wanted the best out of his squad and the two of them had become friends, but Gideon knew how to push his team to supply every ounce of effort they could give and more some, even if he was a bit of a hard-ass at times. It was understandable how frustrated he had become from running the program over and over and for that Mitchell would be sure to improve on his current performance tenfold.

-

“I don’t give a fuck about the arm, Mitchell,” Gideon barked back at the soldier after hearing his reasoning. “The techs can fix it up till it hums perfectly but that won’t help you win the fight. If it screws up out on the field, you need to keep it together and think on your feet.” He had emphasized his rant with a firm two prods of a finger against one right temple. “The enemy won’t stop to pity your arm.” 

The man had a point. Mitchell took a swig from the beer bottle, his eyes following Gideon as he paced around the small quarters, his own bottle in one of his hands. He picked up one of the chairs at the side of the room and spun it around, sitting it in reverse and facing Mitchell head-on, his eyes boring down on him. 

“If it buggers up, you find another way. That’s what we train for. We can’t count for every possible scenario, but we need to make every second count.”

Mitchell nodded in response. He had to up his game. If he found himself without the arm in a dire situation, he’d have to find a workaround. Think fast and on his feet. It’s what all this training was for in the first place. He took another swig from the beer bottle as he spun one or two hypotheticals in his head to how he could have managed in the last run.

“Get up Mitchell.”

“Huh? What?”

Lost in his cycle of thoughts, he hadn’t noticed Gideon had stopped pacing and was now standing in front of him, arms crossed, gazed fixed on him. 

“Get up.” 

It was an order, the commanding tone in the captain’s voice. By instinct, on the second demand, Mitchell got up, placing the beer bottle onto a small desk just by him. He didn’t say or ask anything, watching for the man’s next move. 

Walking around him, Gideon grabbed the chair, swung it around in his hands and placed it next to where Mitchell stood before sitting. 

“Get over my knee.”

Mitchell’s ears pricked up, eyes almost popping wide. “What?”

“I said _get over my knee_.” This time, Gideon emphasized it with his hand, a finger pointing in the direction to indicate lying over his lap.

“Sir?” 

“Fuck’s sake Mitchell, don’t make me say it again!”

Confused and a little agitated, Mitchell did as commanded. Moving slowly, he bent down and moved towards Gideon’s lap. When he was just about over, the older man grabbed him by the waist, hauling him into the position he wanted the soldier in. 

“Sometimes,” Gideon spoke as he laid a commanding hand on Mitchell’s back, “good old-fashioned army discipline gets your head thinking straight, mate.” There was a weight in that arm that warned Mitchell to stay down, telling him through action that Gideon meant business.

“Come on, you can’t be serious Gideon?”

To demonstrate, Gideon had lifted his arm just enough to give it a firm swipe against the younger soldier’s backside. Even with the cargo pants he wore, Mitchell felt the strike go straight through to his core. 

“I’m deadly serious, mate.”

Without giving Mitchell any time to launch another objection, the young soldier felt the captain’s hand deliver the next strike, then another, and another, until he built up a tempo of swats. Each one landed, one after another, alternating from cheek to cheek, the sound bouncing off the walls of the quarters, pinging into Mitchell’s ears. 

His first instinct was to struggle but he learned what that commanding hand was for as weight was given to it, pressing against Mitchell’s back. There was an order to stay down, followed by about half a dozen smacks that were harder than the others, a sort of warning that if he continued to struggle, that was what he’d get.

It didn’t stop him though. Embarrassment and the thought of someone walking in, or even just hearing as they went by the door, fueled Mitchell to try and get up out of the silly discipline routine, but the more he struggled, the harder Gideon smacked him.

“This isn’t working.” There was a sudden break in the routine where Mitchell got a moment to reassess the situation. He felt Gideon’s hands going for the buckle on his cargo pants quickly. “Too much... protection,” he said as he found the clip quickly, releasing it just in time to grab Mitchell’s arm and stop him from retaliating. “We’re not done were Mitchell.”

“Gideon, stop! This is fucking dumb!” Ignored, Mitchell felt Gideon push at the waistline of his pants, shoving at them to push them over his rear and down towards his knees, exposing the cotton white boxers he had on underneath. 

“Fuck, is this really necessary Gideon?” Mitchell asked, twisting his head to look up at the man. “I ballsed up in the simulation but I’m getting there. It’s a learning curve with this thing!” he added, indicating to his arm.

“It’s not about the bloody arm Mitchell. It’s about using your head. Are you even listening to me?” As he finished his sentence, he gave a swing at Mitchell’s butt, the sounding strike filling the room and making the man over his lap jerk in shock.

“ _Ugh_ …” Mitchell grunted through gritted teeth, wincing at each slap that hit his backside, feeling the hot sting starting to grow now that he didn’t have the protection of his cargo pants. Again, the smacks came in a repeated rhythm, landing across different parts of his bottom and he found himself clenching at each land. “Jesus, Gideon!”

There was no response from the man disciplining him apart from a disgruntled sigh, like the type a father would give to some wayward son who had let him down time and time again. The sound skelps against his arse littered the room, shortly accompanied by his only soft grunts at each hit. What was probably about forty or fifty smacks easily felt like double.

“I’m going to do this every time you give me some sad excuse about your arm, Mitchell. Every time until it sorts its shit out or you do.” Some of the words were emphasized with a slightly harder _smack_ as Gideon spoke them, causing a few involuntary yelps from Mitchell. He could feel the searing heat rising throughout him, his buttocks and his face being the two centers of the heat. And that only flared further as he felt Gideon’s fingers reaching for the waistband of his boxers.

“Gideon, don’t!”

Mitchell’s objection apparently fell on deaf ears as Gideon yanked his underwear down in one full obscene move, baring the soldier’s burning backside, two red moons radiating warmth. Once all protection had been removed, Gideon continued on with his punishment, the first crack of his hand against bare skin, a vicious bite at the already sore flesh.

“Fuck!” Mitchell yelled through gritted teeth, fist clenched, a hand immediately going up to protect his ass from any more strikes. “Gideon, that fucking hurts!”

“Man up, Mitchell,” Gideon scolded as he grabbed the offending hand, wrapping his fingers around Mitchell’s wrist and pinning it to the small of his back. The man struggled in his lap, legs kicking against the tangled clothing around his knees, demanding to be let go. “You can get up when we’re done, mate!” 

What followed was a tumult of spanks to Mitchell’s rear, not the original one-on-each-cheek pattern like before. This had no pattern, but they were relentless. They were meant to make him submit, to give up, to accept his punishment. They were merciless, pushing the rookie Atlas soldier to limits he didn’t know he had. The sting surged through his midsection, each impacting slap burning like his skin was on fire.

“Stop!” Mitchell yelled, finding the pain a little too much to handle. “I said stop!” he spat louder as Gideon seemed to take no notice of his cries. “Fucking S.O.B....” 

And with that, the spanking did stop. It was sudden, mid-swing, he could feel Gideon’s body stretch but stop partway through, his hand coming down to rest on Mitchell’s red bottom. There was a short wait before Gideon moved, still with Mitchell pinned over his knee, reaching for something. The young soldier wasn’t sure what it was but he was a little surprised when he felt the cold, firm, smooth object rubbing over his backside.

‘ _You gotta be freaking kidding me!_ ’

“Do you think the enemy will stop when you say so? Do you think they’ll just lay down their weapons cause you asked them nicely? No, mate, they won’t. Here, we see everything through to the end, you got that?”

“Gideon, this is a fucking child’s punishment, not a life-or-death mission!”

“Doesn’t matter Mitchell, if you think you’re tough enough out on the field, you’re tough enough to get through this.”

Mitchell wasn’t prepared for what came next. The sharp _thwack_ across his already painful bottom from what he guessed was a small wooden paddle of some sort got a reaction from him, his whole body jerking from the intense sting from the implement. “Jesus fucking Christ!” 

“Yeah, that’ll get through to you,” Gideon hummed as he gave another whack, bringing the small paddle down on the opposite cheek, hearing another muffled yelp from Mitchell who had bit his fist to try and stem the sound. He prepared his next whack, his arm raised high before bringing it down with a mighty _crack_ against Mitchell upturned rump. It wasn’t as quickfire as he’d done with his hand, but the pain was probably ten times worse.

Eventually, Mitchell found himself kicking and struggling less and more grinning and bearing with the pain, trying to get through, hoping each strike would be the last of this punitive punishment. He felt the sting of tears in his eyes though he wasn’t crying. It hurt like a motherfucker but he wasn’t breaking. He was holding on by the skin of his teeth. 

“Okay mate, twelve more and we’re done. Count them for me.” 

The first of the set struck. “One!” Mitchell said aloud, biting his lip straight after, his buttocks clenching as he felt a tingling rush of air as Gideon went for the next smack. “ _Argh_!... two…” It was humiliating to count out each paddle-swipe but he had a countdown, a number he just had to reach and it’d be done. 

As they got closer to twelve, Mitchell was sure he could feel his ass quiver uncontrollably as he battled to stay composed to the end. His body shivered from the pain, the fiery-red sting that surged from his arse all the way through his core pulsed, keeping his adrenaline running as if he had been stabbed through the leg. And when he announced the last number, _Twelve!_ , it was over. 

“Fuck me...” he hissed quietly to himself, not really caring if Gideon heard. He had been through a thorough walloping, the discomfort that tore through him making him feel uncomfortable and sore. Humiliated, with his pants at his ankles, he took the time to recover before Gideon helped him to his feet. Quickly, Mitchell covered his groin with his hands to save himself any more embarrassment. Gideon scoffed.

“Pull your pants back up mate. It’s done.” He pointed a stern finger directly at Mitchell as the soldier did as he was told. “I don’t want to have to do this again. Buckle up, mate.”

And as the older soldier left the room, Mitchell let out a sigh of relief, taking a moment to rub at his well-heated rear.

‘ _Neither do I._ ’

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback/comments are greatly encouraged and really inspire me to continue writing. I want to write more content so let me know your thoughts, no matter how small! If you are interested in keeping up to date when I add new stuff, you can find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/gutterpupper).


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